


This Could Be the Best Place Yet

by DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered, thebraveandthebroiled



Series: A History of the Senses: A 5 + 1 About Daphne Kluger [2]
Category: Ocean's (Movies), Ocean's 8
Genre: F/F, Marijuana, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 03:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15282216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered/pseuds/DangersUntoldHardshipsUnnumbered, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebraveandthebroiled/pseuds/thebraveandthebroiled
Summary: Constance and Amita take Daphne out to 80s night at a club in Queens, and she learns the true meaning of having a good time.





	This Could Be the Best Place Yet

Neon glowed on the walls and the girls could see the Friday night foot traffic milling around on the street outside 9-Ball’s place.  But the “CLOSED” sign was turned outward and the girls were turned inward. “Pre-gaming,” Constance had called it.

9 took a very long hit from a very fat blunt, held it, and blew a smoke ring or two before exhaling and sauntering over to Lou and Amita at the bar.  She proffered the thing. Daphne peered at it. She’d seen people smoke weed before but it had never been her thing. And those had been dainty little joints.  The thing in 9’s hand was so big Daphne thought she could be carrying a pitchfork in the other hand.

Lou took a hit and blew the smoke with practiced ease.  “Look,” she was saying, and getting rather passionate about it, “I’m just telling you, the point really is that ANYONE can cook!”

Amita took the blunt from her, and took a hit before retorting.  “And  _ I’m _ just telling  _ you _ , they’re rats, and that’s gross!”

“Have a fucking soul,” Lou snapped back.  She snatched the blunt from Amita and spun around on the stool to face Debbie, who was perched on a stool beside her.  “Babe?”

Debbie was absorbed in something on her ipad.  Probably planning the next thing now that they’d gotten away with London.  “Yeah, the mice are fine, honey.”

“They’re rats!” Lou protested.

“Yeah!” Amita shot back.  “And they’re gross!”

Daphne, sitting on the edge of a pool table, finally had to ask.  “What the hell are you talking about?” she demanded of them, swinging her legs back and forth.

“Ratatouille,” Amita sighed, clearly growing tired of the current line of discussion.  

“The movie?  The kids’ movie?”  Daphne was confused.

Tammy sidled in next to her and tugged at Daphne’s silly side ponytail.  “Yeah, Lou’s a big nerd, she likes Disney movies.” Daphne watched her stroll over to where Lou was still holding the blunt.  Tammy took it, and delicately puffed on it.

Finally, Debbie looked up from her ipad.  “Jeez, you too, Timtam?”

Tammy just looked at her as if she’d said something really dumb.  “Since when do you not?”

“Since I had some in lockup that made me feel like I was being shot out of a cannon into a Salvador Dali painting at a thousand miles an hour while bees flew out of my mouth?”  Debbie shuddered at the recollection.

Tammy snorted.  “Sounds like it was laced with PCP.”

Debbie stared at her for half a beat.  “Why do you know that?”

Tammy’s only response was one raised eyebrow.  She turned back to Daphne and held up the blunt.  “You want some, movie star?”

“It’s not optional!” Amita shouted.  She adjusted the black lace and mesh gloves on her hands and pointed at Daphne.  She started chanting, “One of us, one of us, one of us….”

Daphne had always wondered if this was what it was like to have friends.  This, she reasoned, must be peer pressure, then. She shrugged. “OK.” She took a pull.  She held it. It wasn’t so bad, she thought. And then she coughed for ten minutes while Lou and Amita laughed and patted her on the back and got her water.

Rose popped up from beneath the bar, a bottle of whiskey in hand.  She shook it at 9. “Now why’re you hiding the Yellow Spot under the bar?  I needed a boy scout and a flashlight to find it!”

9 looked at her and deadpanned, “‘Cause I knew you were coming over.”

Rose bristled, then frowned, then crumpled a bar napkin and tossed it in 9’s general direction.  She pulled a shot glass down from the shelves and poured herself an unduly generous shot of the best Irish whiskey available to her.

Her eyes found Daphne’s for a moment.  They hadn’t talked about what had happened.  Rose looked over her ensemble; the black lace, the mesh, the neon green tank top… She furrowed her brow.  “What are you wearing?” she asked in a pained voice.

Amita nudged her and grinned.  “Constance and I are taking her to Eighties Night at The Cave.”  She gestured broadly, showing off her lace fingerless gloves and black mesh tank over a neon bra top.  

Rose visibly wilted and attempted a polite sound and glanced around as though she was suddenly looking for an exit.  “Where is Constance, actually?”

9 whooped.  “There she is!”

Constance emerged from the bathroom in a getup that took Daphne several moments to fully absorb; a green sharkskin suit with feathered epaulettes on the enormous shoulder pads, hair pinned up, high heeled boots, and perhaps most confoundingly, a weird, dainty little fake pencil mustache.

Rose exploded.  “No!” She shook a finger at Constance.  “Absolutely not. What is that?”

“It’s a little thing called fashion,” Constance retorted, “look it up sometime.”

“Look it up?  I literally have a Master’s Degree in it!”  Daphne noticed that Rose’s accent got thicker when she was riled up.  Rose glared at Constance, who was sauntering up to the bar, smiling crookedly.  When she was close enough, Rose poked her in the chest. “If you were a man I’d march up to you with a razor and forcibly shave that malarkey off your face!”

Daphne was feeling a little silly now.  Things were starting to warp a little. She was strangely charmed by Rose’s outrage.  “Take it easy, Rose!” she called with a little laugh. “I think it’s very Clark Gable.”

Rose, still fuming over the affront to good taste, moved out from behind the bar and toward Daphne, who had resumed her seat on the edge of the pool table.  “It is not,” she grumbled. “It’s terrible.”

Daphne giggled.  “You’re right. It is terrible.”  She looked at Rose awkwardly for a minute and smiled.  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Rose fiddled for a moment with Daphne’s scarf, as if trying to make the ridiculousness of the whole ensemble better somehow.  “I’m fine,” she said, “you have fun. I don’t much like nightclubs, you know. I’m a homebody.”

“Come onnnn,” Constance coaxed.

Rose smiled lopsidedly at her.  “Don’t think so.”

“Ok, how about a kiss goodbye?”  Constance leaned in.

Rose snorted with laughter and cringed away from her.  “Not even without that stupid thing on your lip and certainly not with it.”

Amita and Tammy were leaning on each other and convulsing with giggles.  Constance gave Rose an overly theatrical, conspiratorial wink. Amita jumped up.  “I almost forgot!” She reached into her purse and pulled what looked like about a dozen tennis bracelets.  She passed a bunch to Daphne and fastened them for her.

“Nothing for me?” Constance complained.

“Come on,” Amita retorted, offended.  She pulled out a diamond tie tack and put it on Constance’s skinny tie.

And so, high and feeling strangely elastic, Daphne, Constance and Amita headed out into the Brooklyn night.  

“Can we even get a cab out here?” Daphne wondered.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Constance assured her.  “I got a Metrocard.”

  
  


****

 

Good pot, Daphne had been told, could make you feel clear and light and happy.  It could also, she had heard, mess with your sense of time. Her overbearing stage mother had managed to keep her off drugs as a teenager, but had also managed to keep her off of pretty much anything fun.

Amita and Constance had been horrified to learn this and decided to fix it immediately. 

She had no sense of how long the trip to Whitestone, which was in the ass end of Queens, had taken, but it had felt like an eternity and a heartbeat at once.  The Cave, an enormous nightclub on what passed for the waterfront, loomed large and was aptly named. They strolled up past the people in their 80s gear waiting in line, and walked up to the bouncer, who was probably named Vinny.  Daphne was wearing shades at ten o’clock at night. He eyed them dubiously. “There’s a line,” he said curtly.

Constance pushed forward and gave him a friendly hug.  “Come on, bring it in, man,” she said. “We’re all friends here.”

He was resistant but disarmed by the suddenness of her gesture.  “Hey, come on, just get in line.”

She reached into her pocket and produced three VIP passes.  “Nah, bro. We’re on the list.”

He frowned.  “You coulda told me that.”  He stepped aside and let them in.  He hadn’t recognized Daphne. He hadn’t noticed that Constance totally stole VIP passes out of his own pocket so they could jump the line, rather than trade on Daphne’s fame to get in.  It was all happening. Her heart thumped once. 

 

_ Thump. _

 

Inside, an eighties cover band was onstage playing The GoGos and Adam Ant and Oingo Boingo.  The temperature on the dance floor was sweltering even with their ridiculous mesh clothes. Daphne heard a bartender say to another bartender, who she supposed was probably also named Vinny, “Doesn’t that chick look like Daphne Kluger?”  And heard the other bartender snidely reply, “Yeah ‘cause Daphne Kluger’s gonna be hanging out at 80s night in bumfuck Queens, whatsamatter with you?”

It didn’t matter.  

She’d been a kid in the 80s, shuffled from audition to audition, only vaguely aware of the day-glo colors and sparkly synth pop and now she was drowning in it.  She was sandwiched in between Constance and Amita and they were mushed together on the dance floor. 

 

_ Thump. _

 

Amita could dance.  Daphne didn’t even know what those moves were.  Hip-hop? Vogue? Bengali dance? Some of all three?  Daphne found herself bouncing up and down like a little child, clapping and yelling while a small crowd gathered.  It was strange to not be the center of attention and even stranger to be enjoying that.

There had never been a time when she wasn’t at the center of attention, and she had never asked for it.  She had grown up being peered at, poked at, critiqued, weighed, quizzed. The feeling of anonymity now surprised her with its welcome sweetness.  

Constance had a different crowd trailing her.  Mostly a small clatch of lesbians that were shamelessly attracted to that nonsense she was rocking.  Amita wasn’t even jealous. She was amused. Someone handed Daphne a cold drink. Gin and tonic. The lime was so sour and cool.

 

_ Thump. _

 

Someone came behind her and kissed her on the cheek.  It smelled like Amita. Daphne wasn’t sure when she’d figured out who smelled like what but she could tell.  The band kicked into the intro to a song that Daphne recognized well: Culture Club’s “Clock of the Heart.” She’d had to sing it for many auditions when she was barely past her mother’s knee.  She whooped.

Constance dragged her toward the stage.  Daphne didn’t understand what Constance was hollering at the male lead singer with the very high, feathered hair and pink lip gloss, but a moment later, he was reaching down and pulling her up onto the stage, and handing her the mic.

Many auditions, in uncomfortable shoes and dresses that she hated and didn’t get to pick.  But now she was with friends, and nobody knew who she was, and she was singing it for no other reason than because she could.

 

_ “Don't put your head on my shoulder  _

_ Sink me in a river of tears  _

_ This could be the best place yet  _

_ But you must overcome your fears…” _

 

She could still sing, it seemed.  It was a very good band. It was a very good feeling.  

  
  


_ Thump. _

  
  


“What is this room?” Daphne wondered, unable to keep from touching the weird, furry walls.  It was dimly lit in very soft blue, so dim they could barely find their way to one of the big, stuffed-to-bursting velvet couches in the far corner.

“It’s the chill room,” Amita explained, parking on one side of her.

“Mostly for people who took Molly,” Constance added, parking on the other.

Daphne wasn’t sure she even knew what “chill” really was.  She hadn’t been a normal teenager. She hadn’t had friends, and hadn’t had time simply being quiet in the dark, feeling relaxed and happy, not having to be anywhere but in the moment.  It was always flashes going off in her face, questions about the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing.

They piled together, replenishing themselves in the dark.  The couch was so soft. Daphne leaned back, her head resting on Amita’s chest (also very soft).  Constance kissed Daphne and she laughed. “Bleh! Take that thing off!” she sputtered, pointing to the mustache.

They were relaxed and laughing and snuggling and she wasn’t sure when it became more than that but there were two pairs of hands sliding up her body and then down, and making her feel awfully good.  Her heartbeat sped up. Amita was nibbling on her ear. Her chest felt so soft, Daphne thought. She thought of Rose. She had liked when Rose touched her, too. Was this what friends did? She didn’t know, but she didn’t feel like stopping any of it.  It was too nice. She came twice, one small, and one big. 

She’d never had sex in public.  Nobody noticed.

 

_ Thump, thump, thump. _

  
  


They found themselves in a tattoo shop in Whitestone at roughly 1:30 a.m.  Daphne wondered why tattoo shops would be open at this hour. She wondered why she’d allowed Constance to talk her into getting a tattoo.  She wondered why she was still high. Still. High.

She stood flipping through a book of choices while Constance haggled with the burly guido behind the counter.  He was good, she thought. There were a lot of nice things in this book, even the ones that she couldn’t imagine getting.

She stopped on a page that had a rose.  It was framed in beautiful Celtic knot work.  “This one, I think. Constance, what do you think?”

Constance stopped haggling and glanced at the book.  “Gay,” she declared, and went back to haggling.

Amita elbowed her.  “Shut up, Connie, it’s pretty.”  She patted Daphne’s shoulder. “You should get it.”

She knew it would hurt, but it was an exquisite sort of pain.  And there would be art at the end of it. She had suffered for art before.  She only cried a little.

  
  


****

  
  


It was 3 a.m. when they rolled into Constance’s mother’s house in Kew Gardens.  They were very tired, but not high anymore. They were, however, ravenously hungry.  They moved quietly up the stoop of the little brick row house, and Constance pushed the front door open.  It groaned a little in protest. She ushered Daphne inside. 

Daphne found herself face to face with an elderly Asian woman and staring down the business end of a baseball bat.

“Mom!” Constance reproached.  She flicked on the lights in the kitchen.  “It’s just me and my friends!”

Her mother grunted and tossed the bat aside.  “You could call, you know. Three a.m.” She turned to Amita.  “Why didn’t you tell her to call? You know better, Amita. She thinks this is a 24 hour Chinese restaurant.”

Amita grinned.  “Sorry, Ma. We were having so much fun we just got carried away and lost track of the time.”

Daphne stood, squirming a little under the small woman’s gimlet gaze.  “You weren’t lying,” she finally said to Constance. “You do know Daphne Kluger.”

“Yeah. I told you that.  She’s my friend,” Constance replied, sounding annoyed.  _  I’m her friend,  _ Daphne thought happily.

The proper introductions followed, and the three were swiftly seated at the small kitchen table near the window.  It didn’t escape Constance’s mother’s sharp eye that the three of them had their sleeves pushed all the way up and had large bandages on their upper arms.  As she pulled an entire tray of uncooked dumplings out of the refrigerator and banged around looking for the utensils she needed, she remarked, “You brought Daphne Kluger to a tattoo parlor?  Constance, why would you do such a thing? She’s Madame Curie, for goodness’ sake! Would you drag Albert Einstein to a tattoo parlor? Maybe take Carl Sagan to do shots at your friend’s little bar?”

She was referring, Daphne knew, to her Oscar-nominated turn as the Polish scientist five or six years ago.  

“Relax, mom, she’s not an actual scientist.”

Daphne chuckled tiredly.  “Uh, well, actually, I do have an advanced degree in chemistry.”

Constance stopped and gaped at her.  “Bullshit,” she said after a moment.

“I knew that!” her mother said proudly, pouring oil into a very large wok.  “Because I read things! Amita, please tell me you knew that.”

Amita nodded.  “Oh yeah. I totally knew that.”

“Traitor!” Constance said to Amita.  She turned back to Daphne and demanded, “Why?” 

Daphne shrugged.  “I studied some chem to get into the character and by the time I knew enough to understand what the character was talking about I just figured I might as well go the whole nine and just get the Masters, y’know?”

“See?” Constance’s mother demanded, shaking a metal spoon in their direction.  “She gets a Master’s degree in chemistry by accident because she’s being method, and I can’t even get you to get a bachelor’s on purpose!”

The bickering went back and forth in the small kitchen as the air filled with sizzling sounds and the smells of pork dumplings cooking.  Daphne closed her eyes and listened, enjoying it. The kitchens she grew up in never smelled like this. They had rarely smelled like much of anything.  There had been so much health food. And worse, the kind of weird trend diets that her mother chased down constantly and foisted on her to keep her “looking her best”: no carbs, no eggs, only eggs, fruit shakes, wheat germ (“but not on audition days because it makes you gassy, sweetie”), no fruit because it had too much sugar, and kale, kale, kale.  

But that was the past.  Daphne was lost in the present, and the smell of wonderful crispy things sizzling in oil.  

“...a terrible influence on these nice girls,” Constance’s mother was saying, “but at least you bring them home for good food!”  Dramatically, she slammed a large plate down in the middle of the little table, piled with fried pork dumplings, egg rolls, and a bunch of fresh bao.  The three dug in without preamble. “You can’t just work at the restaurant with us like your brother, can you.”

Constance shook her head.  She silently mouthed at Daphne, “Help meeee.”

Daphne looked up from the overflowing plate and stared earnestly at her grumpy hostess.  “This is the best food I have ever tasted.” She didn’t even have to ham it up. It was true.  It was everything that her meals in childhood weren’t; designed to be delicious and substantial rather than whatever passed for “healthy” at that moment, and made with love in a home with a bickering but close-knit family.

“Oh,” Constance’s mother said, waving dismissively and trying to hide that she was puffing up with pride, “it’s nothing, this is just what we keep in the house. Next time, if my wayward daughter gives me a little notice, I’ll show you what a proper meal looks like in this house.”  
  


 

****

 

The sun was coming up, and the three of them sat together under an afghan on the couch in the living room.  Constance’s mother had gone back to bed and Daphne was eating the last remaining pork dumpling while they watched the local news station talking about an unexplained cell phone blackout in queens last night.

“Was that 9?” Daphne wondered.

“Yeah,” Amita yawned.  “Covering our tracks. Can’t have snaps of you getting freaky in a dank club in Queens getting all over the internet.”

Daphne yawned too.  She wanted a nap more than anything.  But a question nagged at her. “So… speaking of that...”  She yawned as a stalling tactic. “...so um… last night was… great, but like… are we… um… I mean, are we a… thing or something?”

Constance punched her leg.  “No, dummy, we’re friends. You’re cute and we wanted you to learn what fun is.”

“Oh, good,” Daphne sighed with relief, “because I mean, you know, it was totally fun and stuff but I’m not like… y’know...”  

Constance slumped down into the couch and sprawled her legs across the other two.  “Yeah yeah,” she muttered. “Take a nap, movie star.”

Amita leaned over and kissed Daphne on the forehead.  “It’s ok. We know.”

  
  


**

  
  


The following week, without notice, Constance got a text from her mother.  It was a picture of her, with Daphne, completely Klugered out, entourage in tow, in the family’s restaurant on Queens Boulevard.  Accompanied by the text: We put it on the menus and also there’s a print on the wall now. 

Daphne was sitting across from her, back at a table at 9’s, reading a copy of Chemistry World.  

“You visited my family’s restaurant?”

She nodded.

Constance shook her head.  “My mom likes you better than me now!”

Daphne smiled.  “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s OK.  Thank god she’s stopped talking about Cousin Lucy this and Cousin Lucy that for a minute.”

Deb breezed by on her way to the jukebox.  “Very good, young padawan.”

Daphne glanced up in mild confusion.  “What?” 

Lou patted her on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry, I don’t even follow her half the time.”

Daphne accepted that and her thoughts moved on.  Time was solid again. And she was beginning to understand what it meant not to be alone.


End file.
